


Miscarry

by moonmayhem



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Miscarriage, Nightmares, Pro Volleyball Player Sakusa Kiyoomi, Therapy, sakusa loves his wife, things get really sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-21
Updated: 2020-08-21
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:01:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26020849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonmayhem/pseuds/moonmayhem
Summary: -- mis·car·ry-- /misˈkerē,ˈmisˌkerē/verb1. (of a pregnant woman) have a miscarriage. “Y/n conceived, but she miscarried after five weeks.“2. (of something planned) fail to attain an intended or expected outcome. "Such a rash decision, and one so very likely to miscarry!You haven’t seen Sakusa in a month. He’s stopped by the house, although it is barely evident, you can tell because sometimes you’ll come home from work and the shower has been used or there’s a new plate in the dishwasher. Honestly, you’re just happy that he stops by sometimes. Even if it’s brief, even if you don’t see him.
Relationships: Sakusa Kiyoomi/Reader
Comments: 12
Kudos: 196





	Miscarry

In the kitchen, the sink is dripping leisurely. The house is bone-chillingly quiet, making the dripping loud enough that you can hear it from your spot on the couch in the room adjacent. You are staring up at the ceiling, head reclined as far back as your neck allows, and the echoing of the water droplets does nothing to stifle the overwhelming silence of the surroundings as you bring your hand up to rub over your eyelids.

Not moving from your current position, you raise the other hand that’s white-knuckling your phone, and say: “Call Yoomi.”

You secretly hope that right now, at 11:55 pm, that maybe he’ll be too tired or too busy dealing with Bokuto or Atsumu to look at the caller ID before he answers.

It’s 11:55 pm and you try to remember exactly how long he hasn’t been home.

On the second ring, you hear a grunt and a gravelly voice on the other end, “Hello?”

For a heartbeat of a second, you just breathe, listening to the shuffling of sheets in the background, straining your ears to make sure you don’t hear a second voice and then immediately scolding yourself for thinking he’d have another woman while he’s away.

“Who is this?” He asks a little clearer, and this time you inhale sharply through your nose, chest seizing up in the process.

“No one.” You say, barely above a whisper, and ends the call before Sakusa even has the chance to speak again.

You set the phone down on the coffee table in front of you and pull yourself out of the chair to grab a glass of water. But before you can take more than two steps forward the phone rings again. You hesitate, spending the priceless seconds as it rings staring, and before it reaches its last mocking shrill you reach for it and press it to your ear, remaining silent.

He says your name first, sounding more awake than he had only a minute ago as he speaks again: “Why’d you call me so late? Is something wrong?”

And you wish to god that something was because then you would have an excuse for calling him, but you’ve got no such luck. You’re biting at the skin on your lower lip — he hates when you do that; scolds you for making yourself bleed — and you can already feel how raw it’s getting before you take a shaky inhale and exhale on the words: “I miss you,” and “I’m sorry.”

There are a few beats of silence before he responds. “I’m not ready yet.” Is all he says and your chest begins to constrict your breathing. “You have to give me more time,” he whispers. “That’s all I ask for is more time. I’ll come home after that and we can talk.”

You know you have to give it to him. You know that he’s been ignoring your calls and messages because you did this, you hurt him. _He needs time_ , you tell yourself. _Give him what he wants for once in your life._

“Ok,” you try not to sound like your throat is being restricted by tears, but you don’t succeed. “Ok, I’m sorry for bothering you.”

“Don’t cry,” he mutters. “We’ll talk about it soon.”

Then he hangs up and you’re left with the warmth of the phone screen pressed up against the side of your face, sticking to it by a very thin layer of sweat. Omi only needs time.

So you give it to him. You pick yourself up off the couch after roughly wiping away any evidence of tears on your face. It takes a minute, and it takes a few deep breaths before you’re able to pick up your feet to walk them across your living room, but you will them to work long enough to get you back to the bedroom.

It’s a little bit harder there. The sheets still smell like him because you’re too afraid that washing them will erase him from your life forever — like somehow that _one_ _act_ will be the nail in the coffin of your relationship.

When he comes home you’ll wash them just how he likes. His favorite detergent and fabric softener that smells like ‘cool cotton’. The house will be scrubbed down and sanitized from top to bottom. You will do whatever it takes to make him stay, even if for just a short while longer.

 _He just needs time._ It’s all you can keep telling yourself as you peel back the sheets to burrow yourself into his side of the bed, arms wrapping around your stomach. _He just needs time._

When you sleep, the nightmares begin again.

The monsters do not let you out no matter what. Whenever you try to wake yourself up, whether it be in the middle of the night or early in the morning, they dig their claws into you refusing to let you breathe. It’s as if they want you to stay under no matter how many hours pass into the day – “ _Sleep_ ,” they say, “ _and lay in this bed of nightmares you made_.”

In the middle of the night, you will wake up for a second, tears staining the sides of your face, gasping for breath, and see the digital clock on your phone blink back at 2:30 am right before being dragged back in by the demons that start the nightmare right where it left off.

They do not care if they break you, they do not care if you go through the same maze over and over again screaming for the child you never held. “ _Miscarry_ ,” they taunt. Their growls and murmurs of the word accompanied by the sounds of your own venom, spit back at you: “ _This is all your fault_.”

At different corners of the maze stands Sakusa, his own eyes red and glassy as he stares at you. “ _I’m hurting too, y/n, how could you say that_?”

“ _He hates you_ ,” the demons sing. “ _You did this to him; you took away his happiness_.”

You cry out his name hoping that he hears your apology over your phantom cries, but he doesn’t respond.

He turns around and disappears further into the maze, but when you run after him your feet land in quicksand and you sink, sink, sink deep into your muddy grave.

Right before you suffocate, you startle awake. Your limbs act like cement blocks against your mattress; settling into the material until you acquire enough strength to lift them off. Your heart pounds against your chest and you faintly realize that it’s a little hard to breathe. When you blink there are still images of the demons that were chasing you through the maze as you searched for your baby, but you can no longer hear their once so deafeningly shrill voices.

The only person you don’t see behind the darkness of your eyelids is the one you want to see and to hear the most.

The bed is as empty as it was when you got in it the night before.

Maybe it’s time to wash the sheets.

* * *

The coffee shop was surprisingly quiet for a Saturday evening. Most of the patrons seemed to be holed up in their little worlds. A young man smiled giddily over the rim of his cup as he gazed at his phone, more than likely messaging his lover. There was a smartly dressed businesswoman who sat at a corner table with her laptop out, looking as if she held the world at her fingertips.

The door chimed, signaling a new customer to add to the mix of people in the comfortable atmosphere, but when you glanced over to look, your smile faltered.

A married couple walked in with their fingers tenderly intertwined. The husband held all of her shopping bags as he asked her what she wanted to order. While she decided, her other hand absently moved over her swollen stomach. The calm happiness she emanated felt like a punch to the gut as you deduced that she must have been well into her third trimester.

Even as jealousy boiled inside of you like a sickly green sludge, the gentle voice in your head wished the woman a safe and healthy delivery.

“I’m starting to think that we’re holding on to each other for all of the wrong reasons.” The spoon in your coffee cup rippled the liquid softly as you pushed its handle around the rim, now staring off passed the couple. “This is my fault,” you muttered.

Kiyoko leaned forward slightly, watching you with a knowing tilt of her head and steady, scrutinizing eyes. “Is that what you tell your therapist?”

It wasn’t like you kept the details of your relationship on a prompter for everyone to read, especially when it had to do with going to therapy to work through all of the issues you had. Kiyoko, knowing about the appointments, had the hair on your arms standing on edge.

“How did you-… I don’t understand.”

“How did I know that you were going to therapy?” She exhaled a breath through her nose and carefully wrapped her hands around her coffee. “It’s the way you say certain things. Sometimes you’ll reiterate a phrase or an explanation that parallels what you’re thinking. It’s like you’re trying to evaluate yourself and your thoughts now.”

“I am,” the chuckle you give is without mirth, and the pained expression on your face does not go unnoticed by Kiyoko. “I love Yoomi so much, and I said something horrible.”

Kiyoko reached out and took your hand. “He loves you, y/n. Please don’t think otherwise.”

The day everything fell apart played back like a movie trailer in your mind. “You know, he came home that day with gifts.”

“For you?”

“For the baby.”

Your eyes flicker up to her’s and hold their melancholy gaze. “He had shopping bags filled with new clothes and toys. A lot of the clothes were nature-themed, except one that said, ‘ _taco ‘bout cute_ ,’ and I’m sure that was from one of the guys on the team.” She squeezed your hand as you pressed forward. “I remember being so _furious_ at him. He came home so happy, and I was sitting there near tears after coming back from the doctors.”

_The sound of the front door alerted you that Sakusa was finally home after being out of town for two weeks. He’d called you three days prior and said that he had finally gotten a few days off to take you shopping for nursery furniture. Of course, at the time you’d been ecstatic and couldn’t wait to have him home. Now, hearing him call out for you from the entryway made your stomach churn unpleasantly. You didn’t want to see him at all._

_“Y/n?” He called again before finding you on the floor of the shared bedroom, looking worse for wear. “Plum, are you okay?”_

_When you looked up at him, there was a deep-seated furrow in his brow, an indication of his concern. At that moment, you didn’t know how to feel bad for him. After all, your head was telling you that this was his fault. Denial._

_Omi crouched down in front of you, cautious hands having found their place on your knees. He meant to pry you open and loosen your stiff limbs so that he could pull you to him, but your words gave pause._

_“I miscarried Kiyoomi.”_

_There was a quiet yet sharp intake of breath. The soft look in his eyes, the upturn of his eyebrows, wrote out the letters of pain, but it wasn’t enough for you._

_His voice trembled, “What happened?”_

_“Stress, I— you_ left _, Kiyoomi! You left me alone. That’s it, right? That has to be it. My body didn’t do this to our baby._ ** _I_** _didn’t do this to our baby, so it had to be you!”_

_The words came out in a rambled frenzy, accompanied by the desperate need to make sense of it all. Sakusa himself looked taken aback by the pointed blame, but you couldn’t stop._

_“That’s it, isn’t it? It isn’t my fault— it’s_ yours! _”_

_You punched out the accusation in chuckling hysterics. Sakusa removed himself from you as if he was burned. The pain that you had been hoping to see etched into the faint lines of his face were as clear as day._

_“That’s not fair.” Kiyoomi stood up and took an unsteady step back. “I know you’re upset, I am too, but what you’re saying isn’t fair, y/n.”_

_“_ **_I’m_ ** _the one not being fair?!” The palms of your hands laid flat against the wall at your back, and you used the grip to crawl into a standing position. “What isn’t fair is me waking up in the middle of the night in pain and finding blood where it shouldn’t be! My husband wasn’t there to take me to the hospital; I had to call my best friend and sit in that fucking waiting room after they did all of their invasive tests, only for them to tell me that I was no longer pregnant!”_

_There was a glassy sheen in Kiyoomi’s eyes that almost mirrored that track of tears already staining your face._

_“D-did they,” he cleared his throat. “Did they say why it happened?”_

_Your skin started to crawl. You couldn’t remember. Shades of red and spots of black dotted both your vision and memory. Did they say?_

_“No, Kiyoomi, so I’m left to find the solution myself.”_

_“And your solution is to blame me?” His voice had never been so quiet, so defeated._

_“I have to expel the tissue for hours, maybe even weeks… I don’t know what else to do.”_

_After the argument, you were shocked that Omi had even stayed. He sat, silent and seemingly contemplative, in the living room like he was trying to figure out his next move. He washed his hands more and frequently disappeared into the bath at odd hours of the day, then he’d come out with his skin tinted pink, and you wondered if he had scrubbed himself until he was numb. What he was trying to get off of him, you weren’t sure, but some part of you thought he was washing away at the thought that the loss of the baby had something to do with him._

_Each day went by like the last, he spent the daylight hours silently tending to you and offering soft words of reassurance wherever he could, but at night he turned his back to you. There was a cold, thick barrier, a wall that he had built in the sheets without your knowledge, but you began to realize that you were the one that laid its foundation._

_Guilt began to eat you away each time he reached out to you, firstly asking for permission. Omi would take you in his arms as you wept onto his shoulder, waiting until you exhausted yourself so that he could convince you to rest in bed._

_He would wait outside the bathroom each time you had to go in case the sight of what was in the toilet bowl left you a retching mess. Afterward, he would draw a bath, leaving it up to you to decide whether or not you wanted him to join. More often than not, you wanted to feel his warm skin against yours in the water, but you were terrified that your body would expel something unseemingly while he was there with you. With your husband and his germaphobia, the possibility of that occurring terrified you that much more._

_The days went by quickly as he took care of you and the house – he ended up taking on most of the cleaning, dismissing your help whenever you offered – but you still hadn’t apologized to him. It was stupid, but you were unsure of how to start. The things said were harmful and told with such malice that you felt at a loss as you watched him move about your home like he didn’t need you._

_On the morning that he had to head to practice, you came to the sudden realization that the physical affection the two of you had carefully cultivated as a married couple had disappeared. His touches only happened when you were in emotional distress._

_“We have another tournament in three weeks. I’ll be practicing late to make up for the few days I’ve missed being here.”_

_The way he worded it stung, but you felt as if you deserved it._

_“If it gets too late, don’t stay up for me. I’ll stay at Komori’s or Bokuto-san’s place.”_

_He always complained about how Bokuto was messy and that he could barely step foot in his place again after he found a tumbler with mold in it that his teammate had long forgotten. Bokuto had promptly called one of Kiyoomi’s favorite cleaning services after he threatened to steal all of the meat from his teammate at the next team barbeque._

_“But, Omi, you don’t have to-”_

_Sakusa held his hand up to stop you as he adjusted the gym bag on his shoulder. “I took care of you because I know you needed my support. Let me take care of myself now. I think you owe me that much.”_

_You flinched at the frigid tone, but he_ **_did_ ** _deserve time away. Maybe you did too; perhaps you could glue yourself back together for him._

_“You’re right.”_

_The walk to the entryway was tense. While you watched your husband put on his shoes, you searched your brain, trying to find the right words to say. Kiyoomi stood up, and on reflex, leaned in to kiss you, but stopped midway. The pullback was stiff and unnatural, deciding instead to pull his mask up after giving you a slight nod._

_“Be safe,” you muttered with your arms wrapped tightly around your middle. “Omi?”_

_Sakusa stopped halfway out the door and turned back to look at you, face stoic._

_“I love you.”_

_The three-second pause felt too long in comparison to his usual immediate response, and you grew queasy._

_“I love you, too.”_

_The voice inside of your head questioned, “_ **_Are you sure_ ** _” right as he walked out the door._

Kiyoko is calling you back from your memory. Now you are unsure if you had been speaking out loud and explaining the shameful details of the one-sided quarrel — you hope to god that you hadn’t.

“When did you find the clothes?”

_You had._

Except a seed of relief had planted inside of your chest at Kiyoko’s unwavering gaze. The disgust you’d expected to line the features of her face were nowhere to be found. She always was a very kindhearted person.

Wrapping your hands around the mug, you noticed how the coffee was cooling quickly. “Not until after he left. They were tucked away in the spare room—the room that was to be made a nursery.” Taking a hefty gulp of the lukewarm liquid made you grimace. “I broke down crying when I pulled them out.”

* * *

Friday night had brought on restless emotions. You’d come home from work drained, but unable to sit still and decided that cleaning the entire house the way Kiyoomi had ~~forced~~ taught you was the best way to expel the disquiet. So that’s what you had done for three hours—taking care of the piled up laundry, the dusting, the steaming, the sanitizing, the polishing. Whatever you could do until there was nothing left over.

You even washed the sheets.

Everything was in place. Everything was excellent, but there was still no Kiyoomi, and you had no idea when he would be coming home.

Restlessness still sat deep into your bones and, after spending so much time cleaning, you felt it necessary to clean yourself as well. Maybe the warm water would drain the remaining bits of anxiety out of you. Perhaps the ache of waiting for your husband would settle down with time.

_Wash your body._

Your therapist told you that women often, at some point, blame themselves for something they think they did wrong. She said it was a mysterious phenomenon, like a disease, within women to blame themselves, and the therapist half expected you to do the same.

_Get behind your ears._

When you asked her if she had ever met a woman that had blamed her husband in order to remove the blame from herself, the doctor said, “I can’t say that I have.” To which you replied, “I hate to be the first.”

_Wash your hair._

The root of the problem, though, said the therapist, was that the misplaced blame still stemmed from being terrified that it was your fault.

“It wasn’t your fault, and it wasn’t your husband’s either.”

Those words felt like the first sip of coffee on a cold winter day, blooming warmth from your stomach and to the rest of your limbs.

_Dry yourself off._

It is explained to you that when people do not have a reason for a traumatic event, the mind will do whatever is necessary to make sense of grief. It is a trick that often goes hand in hand with the unknown causes of miscarriages.

“There is a desperate need to fill the gap with anything that makes sense, and in your mind, the stress of your husband not being around was reason enough to latch onto.”

_Dry your hair._

She tells you that the love you had for your potential child is entirely and utterly real.

“Apologize to your husband,” she implores. “Make him hear you. Hold him, however close he allows because although you felt this heavily and immediately, you are not the only one in pain.”

 _Put on clothes_.

You pull on a t-shirt and sweatpants, anything that feels comfortable enough for you to fall asleep in because finally, _finally_ , the weariness is creeping in.

Then, the door opens and shuts, and you freeze. It is the quiet of _tadaima_ that has you stumbling out of the bedroom with shock evident on your face.

Omi is there; his bags are placed gingerly by the entrance; he looks as tired as you feel with his curls falling softly around his face. He puts his mask neatly on a nearby table before the two of you step closer to one another.

“Okaeri,” you respond, throat suddenly going dry as the two of you gaze at one another. The three feet of distance between you felt like miles with hurdles still in between. “Listen, Omi, I–,”

“No,” he interrupted. “Let me go first.”

You pressed your lips together and nodded for him to continue.

“I… can’t always be home. I practice all of the time, and we have a lot of away games and tournaments.” His eyes scan over you, taking in your freshly washed hair as the smell of the familiar shampoo envelops him. “But I’ll be better,” those words make your eyes widen. “On our off-season, I’ll be here for you. I don’t know if that’s enough, but this…” You see the way his fists clench at his sides, “this is me trying, for you, for us, and any small Sakusas that we have in the future. I don’t want you to be stressed.”

You bite down harshly on your quivering lip, eyes suddenly flooding with tears at the sight of his resolve. Sakusa Kiyoomi, the strongest and kindest man you had the pleasure of falling in love with, was reaching out his hand and asking you to retake it. Willing to change and compromise for something he hadn’t even been at fault for, and you extended your hand for real.

“Yoomi, can I touch you? I took a shower. I-I’m clean, I pro-,”

The word dies on your tongue when Kiyoomi reaches out for you and tugs you into him. “You’re my wife; there’s no way I could find you dirty.”

Omi’s arms wrap around you, and the two of you settle comfortably in one another’s embrace. Being here, like this, is something you’ve craved since he left. Craved since before the miscarriage occurred. You only ever wanted to be this close to him, in his arms, with him not letting go.

After a minute or so of self-indulgence, you move away slightly to look him in the eyes.

“I want you to know that what I said when you left isn’t true; we didn’t lose the baby because I was stressed, and I’ll apologize for saying that to you for the rest of my life if I have to.” The tears that hadn’t gotten their chance to slip passed your waterline were now racing each other. “You’re my forever, Kiyoomi, and _you_ are the one that matters most to me. None of this was ever your fault.

“You don’t have to forgive me, but I’m seeing a therapist to help me work through my grief and find healthy ways to deal with my emotions because I _never_ want to do something like that to you again.”

Sakusa hums and takes your hand, tugging you over to a package of germ removal wet wipes that you bought for him in bulk — there were at least 20 more packages in the bathroom cabinets. He pulled one out and gently dabbed at your tears.

“It may take me a while to get over what you said, but I forgive you.” He kissed your forehead before stepping away briefly to dispose of the wipe. “I’m sorry that you had to deal with the news alone.”

“I got the news alone, but it isn’t like…” Your voice trailed off as you took in your husband’s face. There is a question in his eyes that he’s afraid to ask, and you can tell by the subtle furrow of his brow and the slight pursing of his lips. On instinct, you reach out for him again and wrap your arms loosely around his neck.

“Why did it happen? Is it something we could have prevented? Maybe we weren’t cautious enough about the food you ate? Did you get food poisoning when I wasn’t here?”

Your fingers tickled the hairs at the nape of his neck as you applied the slightest bit of pressure so those familiar incessant questions of his would fade out.

“The doctor said they weren’t completely sure, but it was more than likely a chromosome problem. Nothing either one of us could have prevented, and despite what I said, you stayed with me until the worst of it was over.”

Kiyoomi bumps his nose softly against yours. “I did, didn’t I?”

“Even for all of the messy parts.”

“I was horrified.”

You chuckled, happy that the sharp wittiness of his personality was beginning to peek through again. “Even without the germ issue, I’m sure most people would be.”

“I watched you throw up,” a shudder rolled down Omi’s body, and you watched as goosebumps erupted over his skin.

“You must really love me, then.”

“I must.”

With a sly smirk, he dips himself forward and kisses you on the lips. It feels like falling like you have swooped down at the highest point of a rollercoaster. Your heart and your stomach have met each other inside your throat, but there is nothing like the blissful rush of adrenaline thrumming through your veins.

With a parting nip at his bottom lip, you joked, “Good, because someone has to wipe my ass when I get older and can’t do it anymore.”

“No. I’ll put you in a home.” This time the shudder was paired with a grimace.

“You wouldn’t!!”

“Try me.”

“Shōyō wouldn’t treat me like this.”

“Are you telling me you want Shōyō to wipe—,” he immediately scrunches up his nose at the thought. “I’m not even going to say it; I can’t even handle the thought.”

Scoffing in amusement, you press one more chaste kiss to his lips before letting go of him in favor of taking his bags into your shared bedroom. “You sanitized these already, right?” He nodded, and you continued to lug them across the house. “How the hell are you going to change our future child’s diaper, Omi?”

Kiyoomi follows you into the room, eyes softening as he watches you sort the dirty clothes that he’d wrapped in a bag into the different baskets of laundry. “I would delegate that duty to you and you alone.”

You giggle, “You said duty.”

“I’ve changed my mind.” He waits precisely two minutes for you to finish with the clothes before helping you off the floor and pushing you into the bathroom. “We don’t need a child; I already have one right here.”

“My joke was funny!”

“Yeah, for a child.”

Omi starts pulling at your clothes and when you protest because you _just_ got out of the bath, he merely ignores you.

“I already took a shower!!”

“I know,” he sighs. “Take another one. You can never be too clean.”

After the clothes are appropriately disposed of, Kiyoomi starts turning on the necessary functions for things to warm up.

“Omi, I can stay in here to wash your back and hair, but I–,”

He wraps his arms so tightly around you that you don’t even have time for your face to heat up at the bare skin on skin contact. _Obviously,_ this isn’t the first time you have been this close, but it feels like it has been so long. Maybe you weren’t the only one that had been feeling touch starved in the prior weeks.

“Please,” he whispers against your skin. “I want to feel you against me like this. I don’t want to let go of you; please plum.”

His pleading, along with his nickname for you, had tears stinging your eyes. “Okay, Omi, okay.”

Slowly, with his eyes still closed, he gently kisses you. He takes a deep inhale through his nose, and you know that he is savoring the touch of your lips like he has done so many times before.

“I love you,” he promises. “I want to memorize each part of you all over again. Will you let me?”

Tears fall for the second time, but not only from you, and you kiss the moles on his forehead before you pull him towards the waiting water. “Anything for you, Kiyoomi, always.”

Tonight, you hope that he will wrap himself tightly around you, allowing one another to indulge in the closeness and hold on for dear life to the love you almost lost. You hope the terrifying feeling of never waking up to him, never kissing him, and never joking with him stays branded into your memory forever. You pray it remains a burning reminder of how lucky you are to have each other.

The love of your life. His plum.

You know that one day, the two of you will once again regain the courage to fill the nursery with another little Sakusa.


End file.
